Lament
by Felix Marlowe-Cain
Summary: When the battle for The Lonely Mountain is done, and the horrors of war turn to despair, who will comfort the Elevenking? - A short poetic one-shot between Thranduil and his Mistress. Rated 'M' for sexiness.


**Lament**

Felix Marlowe-Cain

 **AN: Confession time! I am a huge LOTR fan, but as far as fanfiction goes, I usually don't touch this kind of fandom with a 10-foot pole. Why? Because it's BIG. I've read the books & seen all the extended films & YouTube clips, enjoyed every article and fan-made anecdote etc. But I absolutely do not know everything. In fact, compared to the most diehard LOTR fans, I know comparatively little. In my experience, that gets any 'true' fan's knickers in a right old twist! I love constructive criticism about my writing, but I just don't have time for trolls, so I usually stick to fandoms I know inside out and back again. Buuut… I should be safe with a little film-based smut, right? **

**OK, let's say this once to be absolutely clear. This fanfic is based 100% on The Hobbit MOVIEVERSE and is only in line with the books as far as the films were… which was not overly-much XD**

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" _There is no love in you!"_ It should not infuriate him so, yet the striking glare of a single she-elf had set his blood boiling to inferno. She was a child. She knew nothing of the world, the pain of it… the suffering! But even as harsh words spilled from his lips, a cruel musing in the back of his head listed all that they shared… and all the ways that she had surpassed him.

At the battle's end, he made his peace with her, for Legolas's sake.

To lose his son so completely would be the end of him. But the compassion and gentleness that usually graced his kin came much harder for Thranduil. Words even more so. Perhaps if he had found the right thing to say in that moment, Legolas might have stayed a little longer. But the boy had grief of his own and Thranduil, useless as he felt, could offer only some advice on where to begin his healing.

The ride home was long. Bittersweet memories of his son in early boyhood were interrupted by flashes of war; Legolas's sweeter mischiefs laced with visions of blood and death… of soldiers beyond count laid motionless in the streets of Dale. Guilt stirred his former anger, stoking the fires while a nasty, orcish tone whispered 'fool' in his ear. And he had no witty nor wise retort for it. For arrogance alone his soldiers had met their end. For a husband's grief, Legolas had suffered. And now Thranduil had less than when he started. The laments of his people would ring though the halls of the Woodland Realm for weeks.

Indeed, it began almost as soon as he set foot within the walls of his palace.

He retired directly to his quarters, already nursing a violent headache. A bath was run. Armour blackened with enemy blood was sent for cleaning. He barked at Galion to 'bring her' and sank down into the steaming depths of scented water. It did little to help the pressure in his shoulders. The disaster of the battle seemed to hang about his neck like a badge of shame. And there was no relief. No wife. No son. No friend to ease the burden. The solitude bore down from stone walls, threatening to close in about him.

Delicate footsteps. He looked up, half startled his dark thoughts had been so deep. She gave a graceful curtsey, but said nothing. She was not there for speaking. She was there to be beautiful; a duty she was overqualified for.

Hair of dark gold tumbled in waves over a naked shoulder. Eyes like summer sky met his with the same fearlessness that first caught his attention. She wore the thinnest of dresses, her smooth curves a silhouette behind silk. The sapphire fabric encircled her arms and clasped with a single jewel at a tantalising breast. Immediately much of his mind was occupied thinking how easy the garment would fall once that single broach was stolen away…

Wives died. Need did not. And he had done centuries of mourning before he faltered. She was the first he'd taken to his bed since his beloved's death. He did not love her. He did not need to.

As king, he'd had his choice of the realm; all manner of noblewomen and their daughters. But he'd chosen her. Some girl he'd spied working in the kitchens when the need for wine - and the slumber of his butler - had driven him to seek it out for himself. He told himself it was for simplicity. There were no complications. No expectations. She knew her place and was well compensated for it. So well, he was informed, that her family was able to move into a larger home and her sister had apparently married quite above her station. It was a fair trade, he had decided. Her innocence, for his influence.

He turned away from her with only the smallest inclination of his head. Well trained as she now was, she heard the unspoken command and swept to her knees behind him. Lithe hands massaged the headache away better than any medicine. He tried to relax against the stone and lent into her fingers. The bath, being one cut into the ground, meant that he could rest his head directly into her lap.

His little jewel. His last pleasure in these miserable nights. She'd cried the first time he'd taken her. Such sweet tears falling silent over her cheeks as he claimed her. The first man she'd ever had… And the only one since. She'd borne the discomfort well, her arms around his shoulders, her hands digging into his back. Creamy thighs pressed tight about his waist as he robbed her future husband-

His nose wrinkled as distaste twisted is stomach. The ghosts of battle took the opportunity to rush at him, his brow furrowing as again he was haunted by the foul stench of war.

Gentle hands slipped from the long locks of his hair to run over his shoulders and down the broad expanse of his chest. Fingertips teased flesh in silent offering. He opened his eyes and found her expression more concerned than anything he'd expected of her. When did she learn to read his taciturn demeanour so well?

That gleaming broach hovered only a little way from his gaze and successfully banished unpleasant thoughts once more. Reaching over he plucked it from the silk and watched as the dress fell exactly as he'd imagined; whispering against her flawless skin. The fabric caressed her breast on the slow slide down, finishing as a pool around her hips. She did not hide herself. Nor did she blush. But demure eyes lowered to the stone as he admired her exposure.

He might have said a word meant to reassure her - something such as 'exquisite' or 'perfection' - but he did not remember. What he did recall was turning, reaching up with wet hands to follow the path of her dress. He remembered her skin prickling to his touch, her nipples hardening as warm water teased with his caress.

She had beautiful breasts. Larger than most elven women could boast, with a pleasing shape and weight to them. She leaned forwards to better reach his touch; to press against his palms and allow him the pleasure of feeling her. Eyes fluttered closed. A sigh of delight passed her lips; a sound that sent a shot of desire straight to his growing erection. Her reward was the kiss of his lips ghosting over her nakedness.

His tongue curled about a tight nipple, joined a moment later by the pinch of teeth…Too hard. Too much. A twinge of thrilled guilt echoed behind his desire as she gasped. He bit again, harder… daring her. For just a moment, she forgot her place. A hand came to his hair, taking hold of the silvery locks and pulling. The tug was unpainful, enough only to beg his mercy. He might have ignored her, punished her even, were it not for the whisper so low even his elven hearing struggled to catch it. "Please…" Reluctantly, he released her, soothing away the disappointment with the promise of an alternate price.

With an insistent pull on her knees he persuaded her to sit closer, dress still caught on her waist but feet slipping free to dip into his bath. Hands took a leisurely dance along the underside of her legs, a private command that had her gathering her skirt and spreading her thighs. It was a perfectly timed dance, his fingers arriving at her centre just as she invited him. She sighed, back arching. Her body writhed beneath his touch. A smirk pulled at the King's lips. She was so warm, wet… _ready_.

Interest first taunted now roared with demanding. All the emotion left unspent made his heart pound in his ears. He took a grip on her hip - tight enough that her eyes grew wide in alarm - and yanked her to the very edge of the pool. His fingers thrust into her with a single violent intrusion. She cried out, her voice echoing against stone as he pushed into her heat with a demanding pace. He added a third finger. She braced her feet against the edge of the bath and opened her legs that little bit more. Her surrender was as swift as it was satisfying.

Thranduil took hold of her belt, the last thing that bound her dress to her body, and worked it loose. She grasped the edges of her skirt and lifted it gracefully over her head. Her nudity would make artists weep. He'd never seen such bodily perfection before, and he'd already sampled a full range of elven lovers before his marriage.

He lifted her leg and indulged in kissing a trail from ankle to knee. He didn't want to think of his wife right now. He didn't want to think of anything, that was rather the point.

He pulled himself out of the pool and took his place above her. She trailed cool hands down his body to grasp his straining member. Leaning on elbows he thrust into her grip, allowing wave after wave of sensation to ripple over his skin.

The strength went out of his neck. He rested forehead upon her shoulder for half a moment, then turned to take the delicate point of her ear between his teeth. Another cry rewarded him. He bit harder to hear it again… louder… with more emotion. _Yes_. This was what he needed.

Hands took hold of her arms. His nails bit into her flawless skin and marked her. She gasped, her hands abandoning his length in favour of grasping his sides and pulling him tight against her body. He felt her every curve press against him; trapped between him and the stone of the floor. Her hips moved, shifting into place. A plea was whispered on shallow breath. "My Lord…"

He took her. Every inch of his being demanded it.

She screamed. The sound rang in his ears. He found strength in his arms and rose to his knees. The grip on her hips was too tight. Her shoulders scraped against the rock when he pulled her against him. He thrust into her with all the ferocity and demanding that he was capable of. It was not her doing. This rage… she did not deserve it… But he could not find the power to calm himself. He wished she would fight him; either to spare herself this indignity or rush him to completion, he was unnervingly unsure.

But she didn't. She surrendered as he had taught her to do, because he had liked to have her at his command. Hair haloed an angelic face she'd turned away. Arms were thrown over her head. Breasts rebounded obscenely. Her skin began to take on a dusting of rose as she gasped for breath. It drew out his pleasure… and the viciousness of his conquest.

"Look at me!" he commanded.

She did as she was told, her summer eyes meeting the starlight of his gaze… And then she reached for him… a soft plea in her beautiful face.

It was the boldest thing she'd ever done. The only time she had ever asked him for anything in all the years of their coupling. Something in his chest broke. The rage crumbled. His eyes threatened to water.

Taking her hands, he pulled her up into his lap. Arms clung to her. Head rested against her breast. He breathed deep, taking in the scent of trees that lingered always upon her skin. Her hands ran through his hair. Her lips pressed a rainstorm of kisses to the top of his head. He slowed their joining to a sensual movement that made her gasp. Her hips moved with purpose as she chased her pleasure.

He felt it wash over her. He felt her embrace tighten around his length, his head falling to her shoulder as she took him with her.

For a moment they lingered. Entwined and lost. Thranduil clung to the last shreds of pleasure and peace before the darkness of solitude closed about him once more before despair made her nothing but a cold jewel in his hands. Precious… but ultimately meaningless. He didn't want it to come. He wanted… he _wished_ …to love her.

But he could not. His heart belonged to the emptiness of a dead woman.

She could always sense when her time was done. Even that first night, she had known instinctively when to rise, dress and excuse herself, leaving him to the comfort of isolation. But tonight…?

The air was cold when she rose from his lap, breaking their unity and freeing herself from his embrace. She took the welcome liberty of gliding into his finished bath to wash clean of sweat and seed.

Thranduil slipped slowly and silently into his robe. His brow furrowed. The restless anger was gone. The back of his mind was already making swift plans to deal with the mess he had made… but the echoes of personal scorn were not silenced.

He retreated to the privacy of his chambers. It was exhaustion. Too much done over too short a time. Rest would repair the damage, surely. But his heart called him a liar as he eased between the blankets of his bed. He could hear the laments of his people singing through the halls of his realm, all their sorrow carried upon every note. How many mothers grieved? How many lovers would now know the agony that was his constant companion? And for what? A handful of jewels. Precious…but ultimately meaningless. He closed his eyes tight and felt moisture upon his cheeks. There was no anger now to guard against the pain. No reprieve. No sanctuary—

The bed dipped behind him. His eyes snapped open, but he remained still. He knew her weight quite intimately by now… but he could not fathom her logic, nor her courage. He had made no invitation for her to linger. He never did. The hours before sleep were his to endure alone! …The shock and indignation were enough to stifle treacherous tears.

She leaned in behind him, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder. "My lord…?" Her voice was a whisper. Her scent was a blessing. "Thranduil…?"

His skin prickled with unexpected pleasure. She'd never called his name before. Too improper for a lady who knew her place. Yet here she lingered. He could feel her nervousness in the tremble of her fingers.

Slowly, he rolled onto his back and looked up at her. He found a face full of sympathetic apprehension. His reprimand died on his tongue as some flash of terrible understanding came to him. He let out wistful a sigh. A fool he would ever be, that was almost certain.

Reaching out he brushed back some of her lovely hair, and let her fold down into his arms. He drew the blanket up and over her shoulder, warming her as her eyes closed.

There would be no husband come to take her away from him. She knew her place. She knew it better than he did.

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 **This is intended as a kind of poetic one-shot, but I *could* maybe do another chapter or two… maybe…**

 ***SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION* If you like my work, I write a LOT of fantasy fiction (with some kinky elves). Come find me on Facebook or Fictionpress.**


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